“She’s your daughter,” I tell Tommy.
“She’s a mini version of you.” He hands me the bottle of rosé he was smart enough to grab from the fridge and slings the portable oxygen concentrator over his shoulder. “It’s no wonder you drive each other crazy.”
I furrow my brow. “I liked it better when you said it was just a stage.”
Tommy turns to let himself out of the car and I try to ignore the fact that even his smallest movements look like they take a great amount of effort. This is all happening too fast.
“And just so you know, I was an angel compared to her,” I say, walking around to join him.
“Don’t forget I knew you when you were just about her age.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Always,” he says, taking my hand in his.
I open the door and we let ourselves in. The house smells even more amazing than usual.
“Hello?” I call out, but there’s no reply.
“They’re probably out back,” Tommy says.
We walk through the kitchen, where the oven is on and the island is filled with a medley of salads and various delicacies. Jill outdid herself like she always does.
The back door opens and Jill and Lou walk in. “You’re just in time, we’re about to fire up the grill.”
I hold up the bottle of wine. “We brought this.”
“Thank you,” Jill says. “And about the other day . . .”
“It’s fine.” I stop her. “It’s bad for business if you aren’t polite to the customers—even the heart-crushing, devil-incarnate ones, right?”
“Right,” she says, relief clear on her face. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
I smile and walk around the island to the drawer where I know she keeps her fancy corkscrew and grab four glasses from the cabinet above the sink. I love that I feel just as comfortable in Jill’s house as my own.
I’m pouring the third glass when Abigail walks in, her sketchpad in hand. Her eyes go straight to the wine bottle.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jill says, following her eyes.
“I didn’t say anything,” Abigail says, not so innocently. “You look nice, Aunt Lexie.”
Jill turns around and looks at me purposefully. “You do, I’m sorry I didn’t notice. It’s like I don’t really see you anymore. No offense.”
“None taken. I think?”
We laugh and clink glasses before taking a sip of the crisp wine that tastes like summer.
Outside, CeCe and Beau are sitting around the centerpiece of Jill’s backyard, a beautiful table made of reclaimed wood. The sky is just starting to darken, and the lantern lights hanging around the fence make it look like a scene from a home and garden magazine.
Beau gets up from his seat and holds the chair out at the head of the table for Tommy, who gratefully sits down.
“Can I help?” CeCe asks, standing up as well.
“Be my guest,” Jill says, handing over the tongs.
One by one, CeCe takes the chicken breasts from the container where they were marinating and lays them on the hot grill. The sizzle is music to my taste buds and my mouth waters in anticipation.
If CeCe learns how to grill, maybe we can become one of those families who barbecues instead of one of those families who relies on getting invited to other people’s barbecues.
“These are pretty thick,” CeCe says. “About six minutes per side?”
“That sounds right,” Jill says. “Want to set your timer?”
CeCe pulls her phone out of her pocket to set the timer. “I’ll go wash the tongs off since they touched raw chicken.”
“I’ll help,” Beau says, following CeCe inside.
Jill sits back down and takes a long sip of her wine, clearly happy to have a helper who shares her passion for cooking. “We’re going to miss having CeCe at the café once she has to start on the Seasiders set.”
“That didn’t work out,” Tommy says. His voice is low and serious, and he gives Jill and me a conversation-ending look. Not that I want to get into it all again, either.
“I’ll tell you later,” I tell Jill under my breath.
Last night was the first real fight we’ve had all summer thanks to this mess. I didn’t think it was possible to hate Monica any more than I did for what she did to Tommy, but it’s even more despicable to break a little girl’s heart. She never should have promised CeCe a role in the show before she knew if it was actually possible.
This was exactly why I didn’t want CeCe to get her heart set on acting—being a teenager is hard enough without all the rejection and scrutiny of your appearance. Of course, not getting the part had nothing to do with her talent or her looks. Tommy said the daughter of the executive producer’s neighbor had already claimed the role. But still.
I made Tommy tell her since it was his fault we were in this mess in the first place. She took it surprisingly well. Tommy thinks it’s because she’s more mature than I give her credit for, but I think there’s something else going on that’s captured her interest. Maybe she’s realizing she likes cooking even more than acting?
The alarm on CeCe’s phone goes off, startling Abigail, who’s had her head buried in her sketchbook since we sat down. CeCe comes back out with the clean tongs; her face looks a little flushed as she steps back in front of the grill.
She lifts the lid and turns each chicken breast over before resetting the timer. I’m impressed by the way she moves with such confidence; she really knows what she’s doing.
“Mom, do you want all this stuff outside?” Beau asks through the screen door.
“That would be great. Ab, will you get the plates and silverware?”
“Fine,” Abigail says, clearly not happy that she has to stop drawing to help her brother.
“I can get it,” Lou says, starting to stand up.
“Absolutely not.” Jill puts her hand on Lou’s shoulder, gently pushing her back down. “You’re off the clock tonight.”
Lou looks embarrassed but stays seated.
“Beau?” Jill calls out as if she’s suddenly remembering something. “Will you get the potatoes out of the oven and put them in the MacKenzie-Childs bowl? And the pita needs to be warmed up—never mind, I’m coming.”
I reach over and take Tommy’s hand in mine, startling him a bit. “Everything okay?” I ask, a little nervous to hear the answer.
“Never better,” he says. “Except for this whole cancer thing.”
I open my mouth to say something about how we talked about taking it easy on the jokes, but I stop myself. I don’t want to make Lou any more uncomfortable than she already seems, and I’m trying to understand that if this is the way Tommy needs to deal with his cancer, I have to try to let him.
Abigail is back outside before I can think of something pithy and light to say in response, so I force a smile and take a big sip of my wine.
“Who’s hungry?” Jill asks as she sets a black-and-white-checkered bowl filled with roasted potatoes on the table. I reach over to grab one, ignoring her warning that it’s too hot.
CeCe’s timer sounds again just as the last dish is being set on the table, and I watch as she transfers the grilled chicken to a clean tray that matches the potato bowl, only pausing once to push up her glasses, which have fogged up from the hot air.
“How do I turn it off?” she asks.
“I’ve got it.” Beau is out of his chair before Jill can say anything. In an exaggerated, heroic move, he pushes the giant off button on the grill. CeCe rolls her eyes.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Beau might have a little crush on my girl. But according to all the photos on his Instagram feed, he prefers girls with beach-blond hair and bodies to match, just like his dad did. Thank goodness CeCe is still hung up on Liam—I have enough things to worry about this summer without adding a junior Adam to the list.
Adam was always girl-crazy, even when we were kids and “dating” me
ant holding hands and sharing a sno-cone on the beach. The local girls didn’t take him seriously, but he had a way of charming the vacation girls. The rest of us made a joke of it, tracking the different girls he was with every week, using it as a way to mark the passing of time.
“We haven’t been to the Donut Hole since Krissie!” or “Remember the movie we watched during the Libby weekend? Or was that D.J.?”
It was funny at the time, not so much looking back. I would have no sooner thought Jill and Adam would get together than I would’ve imagined a world where I’d end up with Tommy.
Tommy.
I look over at him and take a mental picture of this moment. He looks proud as he spears a chicken breast from the plate Jill is holding out for him. He sets the breast on my plate before getting one for himself.
The smile he gives me when he catches me staring makes my heart swell. I know I should be grateful to have experienced the kind of love they write fairy tales about, but I want more. He coughs and slips the oxygen cannula back in place, a reminder that we won’t be getting our happily ever after.
Chapter Thirty-One
CeCe
Aunt Jill keeps giving me funny looks. Beau shouldn’t have followed me inside when I went in to wash the tongs. I told him to go back out, but he wouldn’t listen. He was so cute about staying that when he went to kiss me, I couldn’t bring myself to push him away. Even though his mom, his sister, Lou, and both of my parents were just on the other side of the screen door.
Dad keeps raving about how good the chicken is, and it is really good. But I can’t take credit for it. Aunt Jill’s the one who made the marinade, which I think is olive oil, lemon, thyme, and rosemary. There’s probably a little garlic and black pepper in there, too. All I did was grill it.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” Dad says, even though it wouldn’t hurt him to eat several more bites. If he gained a little weight, maybe he wouldn’t look so sick.
“You’ll have to give me the recipe,” Mom says, and I have to hold back a laugh. There’s no way she could make a dinner like this, even if she had step-by-step instructions.
“Or maybe she can give it to CeCe?” Dad says, cementing his place as my favorite.
“Whose turn is it to do the dishes?” Aunt Jill asks. She looks at Lou. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Let me,” Mom volunteers. “It’s the least I can do.”
“That’s not necessary,” Aunt Jill says. “But if you insist, Beau will help you.”
“He will?” Beau says, trying to be funny. Which he is. And also kind of adorable.
“He will,” his mom says, pouring the adults another glass of wine.
Mom and Beau both stand up, and my stomach drops. The two of them in there, talking. What if he says something about us? What if she says something embarrassing about me?
“I’ll help,” I say a little too eagerly.
“I’ve got it,” Mom says. “Both of you, sit down and let me take care of it. Is the dishwasher clean or dirty?”
“Dirty,” Aunt Jill says. “We’ll supervise and keep you company. C’mon, Lou.”
Lou stands up, grateful for the escape. She’s barely said more than ten words tonight; it’s like she’s a totally different person when it’s just us at the café. She’s actually kind of funny, she’s crazy smart, and she knows literally everything there is to know about baking. I bet the kitchen is her comfort zone, kind of like the stage is mine.
“Hey, Beau Bo,” Dad says, using the nickname he gave Beau when he was a baby. “Did I see a guitar in the living room?”
“Yeah, I’m just starting to play—but I’m not very good yet.”
“Mind if I take it for a spin?”
“Sure.” Beau smiles and heads inside to grab his guitar.
Dad folds his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair. Abigail keeps looking at him, then down at her sketchpad. I lean back to try to see what she’s drawing, but she pulls the notebook close to her chest. She’s so weird that it’s hard to imagine she and Beau came from the same two parents.
Beau is back minutes later, and the second he hands over the guitar, Dad’s whole face lights up like he’s about to get reacquainted with an old friend. It’s been too long since he played; we should bring his guitar downstairs and maybe he’ll play it more. Who knows, maybe playing music is as therapeutic as listening to it can be.
“Any requests?” Dad asks as he fiddles around with the strings, tuning it up.
“‘More Than Words,’” Abigail says. Her taste in music is so ancient; she likes all the stuff that our parents listen to. I bet her favorite Spotify playlist is Oldies but Still Goodies or something equally lame.
Dad starts strumming the intro and I can’t stop my toes from tapping along with the beat.
“Ceese, will you sing with me?” Dad asks.
I look at Beau, who has a stupid smile on his face. I don’t want to sing in front of him, and I’m a little embarrassed that I know the words, but it’s impossible to grow up hearing these songs a million times and not pick up the lyrics.
“Please?”
Before I can answer, he starts to sing. “Saying I love you . . .” His voice sounds raspier than normal.
I join in at the next line and Dad smiles so big that he loses his place in the song. I keep going and he just plays the guitar.
He comes back in, singing the chorus with me, and I make the mistake of looking over at Beau, who has a strange expression on his face. He’s heard me sing before, so I don’t know what the big deal is.
We finish the song just as the fireworks start, lighting up the sky with flashes of blue, red, purple, and green. We all stop and stare up at the show in the sky, and I push the thought away that next year, Dad will have the best view of us all.
Mom, Jill, and Lou come back outside just in time to see four of my favorite, white sparkly ones explode one after another. I look over at Dad, who is watching with an expression that looks happy and sad at the same time.
After the last burst of color fades from the dark sky, leaving clouds of gray smoke that start to disappear, Aunt Jill starts passing out small plates for dessert and Dad picks up the guitar again. He starts to play the “Happy Birthday” song even though it’s nobody but America’s birthday.
“Whose birthday is it?” Abigail asks, confused.
“No one’s,” Mom says. She looks sad even though she’s smiling.
Aunt Jill and Mom start singing along with Dad, first with Aunt Jill’s name in the song, then again with Mom’s. I look over at Beau, but he looks just as confused as I am. Old people are so weird.
They sing Dad’s name next, then start going around to us kids’ and then to Lou. When they’ve made it through all of our names, Dad stops playing. Aunt Jill wipes her eyes and Mom looks like she’s getting weepy, too.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“That,” Dad says, “was the first song I learned to play on the guitar.”
“So?” I ask. He’s clearly learned how to play a lot more since.
“So one night when we were kids, around your age, we had a little bonfire at Jack and Jill’s house, and that was the only song I knew how to play. So I played it over and over again all night.”
“With all of our names,” Mom says.
“And then the names of everyone we knew,” Aunt Jill adds.
It’s weird to think about our parents being our age, hanging out and being friends and playing guitar like they are tonight. Dad keeps strumming little nothings. “Everyone I love, full and happy, singing, laughing and watching fireworks,” he says. “This is what I want my funeral to be like.”
Funeral? My fingers stop working and my fork falls from my hand, crashing onto the plate and making a noise louder than the fireworks. Everyone turns and stares at me.
All of the sound is suddenly gone. It’s like someone pushed the mute button on the world and I can’t hear and I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I have t
o get out of here.
“Tommy.” My mom is whispering, but it sounds like she’s screaming. “Now’s not the time.”
Of course now isn’t the time. Never is the time. There never is and there never will be a time. I look over at my dad, who doesn’t even look like my dad anymore.
He reaches for me, this hollowed-out shell of the dad he used to be. The only part of him that looks the same is his eyes, except right now, the blue one and the brown one both look scared. And that’s something I’ve never seen before—not even when we lied to Mom and said we weren’t going to watch scary movies on Halloween but we did anyway.
The empty feeling is back in the pit of my stomach and I scoot my chair away from his outstretched hand.
“I need to get some air.”
“We’re already outside,” Beau says. I know he’s trying to be funny, but I don’t need funny right now. I need my dad to be okay.
Dad reaches for his oxygen bag and slips the little tubes back in place, breathing slow and steady. I can’t look at him like this, and I don’t want to see the concerned looks on everyone else’s faces.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“CeCe,” Mom says.
I turn and give her a look, daring her to try to stop me.
“Let her go,” Dad says.
Everyone looks at him and then at me, and now I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave him, but I already said I was going, so I run around the side of the house and push through the white picket fence, letting the gate slam closed behind me.
“I’ll go with her,” I hear Beau say.
But I don’t want that, either. I want to be alone—not with him, not with anyone. Standing on the street, I look in both directions. He probably thinks I’ll go left toward the beach. Or maybe he thinks I’ll head right toward my house. I look up, knowing my time is running out.
Then I see it. The McKeens’ house. The For Sale sign is still out front, so I bet no one’s there. I run across the street and crouch in a corner of their front porch where it’s dark. Just in time, too, because I see Beau standing in front of his house.
He looks to the right and then to the left, just like I had done moments before. He looks straight ahead and I think he might see me. But then he looks toward the left again and starts walking toward the beach.
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